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There was a distinct look in Wyatt’s expression that Andrew recognized as he watched his partner turn away from him and lean against the porch rail, hunched over in a way that exuded I’m fine when he was anything but. It was in the way Wyatt breathed in the fresh, crisp air as deeply and desperately as a man drowning, that Andrew couldn’t miss even with Wyatt’s back turned.
Oh, sunshine.
“Come here.”
Andrew didn’t leave him with the option to refuse; he grabbed a handful of the back of Wyatt’s shirt and pulled, and Wyatt came as close to willingly as Wyatt ever did, although his eyes were wider than usual and his expression held a lot more apprehension than he usually ever showed. It was in private moments like this with only the two of them that Andrew was able to catch these glimpses of Wyatt with his guard down, and the dropping of the walls didn’t often happen without a whole lot of persuasion first.
Andrew drew Wyatt into his arms, wrapping them tightly around his partner’s frame, gently but fully encasing him. Wyatt sunk into it; it was a bit surprising how unreserved he was in the way he let himself be held, but Andrew didn’t question it. Tired, strung out, just plain fed up with everything—he was at his wit’s end, and being held sounded pretty good right now. Even if a part of him was screaming that he didn’t need it.
“I love you,” Andrew murmured into his ear, and Wyatt groaned, half-heartedly pushing against Andrew’s chest.
“Don’t fucking start.”
“I love you,” Andrew repeated more firmly, “and it’s been a long, hard week, and you need a release. I’m going to take care of you, sunshine.”
“I don’t…”
Wyatt’s mumble trailed off, and Andrew could feel as much as hear him sigh. He didn’t even have the wherewithal to protest, which was unlike him. Wyatt’s protests were always mostly noise, an act that made it easier for him to reconcile with himself that it was okay to both need and want what he did, and Andrew knew that about him as well as he knew the back of his own hand. He understood it, and he never mistook those token protests.
The fact he couldn’t manage to do it now made Andrew frown and hug him tighter. “You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured in his ear, “except over my knee.”
Wyatt audibly swallowed, but some of the tension seeped out of his muscles—fractionally, but enough Andrew knew he was moving things in the right direction. To decide not to continue would be cruel—Wyatt needed this as much as it seemed on the surface counterproductive. He needed to know he was loved, he needed to feel it, and most importantly, he needed the catharsis. A good reason to just let it out.
Andrew kissed the side of his head, took Wyatt’s hand in his, and led him to the porch swing. It was the size of a bed and made by Wyatt’s own hands; a home comfort right outside, and one of Wyatt’s absolute favorite places in the entire world. They often spent evenings there—and sometimes even entire nights—and it seemed the perfect place for what Wyatt needed.
Andrew sat down on the swing, far enough back to rest his back against the slats and to stick his legs out straight in front of him. The swing swayed some, but Wyatt, without looking at him, held it steady to climb up—and would have bent himself over his lap if not for Andrew’s hand stopping him.
“Hold up. Pants.”
It earned him something of a glare that by Wyatt’s standards was half-hearted at best. Andrew met his glare with an expression that didn’t waver. “Come on,” Wyatt grumbled at him after a moment.
Andrew said nothing, and with reluctance, Wyatt reached down and unbuttoned his jeans, pushing them down to about mid-thigh. He shoved the heel of his hand against Andrew’s thigh—Andrew guessed it was meant as a silent reproach—before he bent himself over, settling on his stomach over Andrew’s lap with his elbows digging into the swing’s mattress. Andrew pulled his underwear down and out of the way without comment and rested his hand on Wyatt’s bare bottom.
Wyatt tried not to squirm. Andrew could see the twitching of his muscles and the rigidity in his back and around his shoulders. He never did particularly like when Andrew just touched him like this, in this position, knowing what was going to happen next.
There wasn’t a whole lot to say and even less point in drawing it out. Andrew lifted his hand and let it fall in a solid, hard swat, watching as Wyatt’s skin immediately blushed at the impact. Didn’t stop there, of course; Wyatt wouldn’t appreciate it if he did—even if he’d say differently—and they both knew it. Wyatt sucked in a sharp breath but said nothing; no protests, no cuss words, no remonstrations. He did drop his head, and he couldn’t stop his legs from twitching as Andrew landed swat after swat against his bare behind, not in any way holding back.
It wasn’t about punishment. Andrew would never punish Wyatt for having feelings, or for going through a hard time, and there was no mistaking this as that. Andrew was confident in the knowledge that Wyatt knew it as well as he did; it was not the first time they had had to practice something like this.
And it helped. That was the best and worst of it—a spanking could touch parts of Wyatt that other things couldn’t reach, it was familiar enough to help him in letting go and releasing whatever tension he had inside him.
If that was what Wyatt needed, Andrew could absolutely deliver.
Wyatt wouldn’t appreciate being taken easy on, so Andrew didn’t. He landed crisp spanks every bit as hard as he normally did, covering the entire surface of Wyatt’s ass in a steady rhythm, the only sound around them the birdsong and the echoing smacks against bare skin. The only ears to hear them were the dog’s, and Athena was used to them by now. She had barely lifted her head off the porch floorboards when the first smack had landed, and she was now gazing out into the yard instead of paying them any attention.
Wyatt’s skin was only dusty pink by the time he started making choked sounds, and the stiffness of him started loosening up. It wasn’t very like him, but with the way he was feeling today, Andrew wasn’t surprised. This wild man of his was not short on obstinacy and had a will of iron to boot, and he was the hardest on himself. It could take a decent chunk of time for a spanking to get him where he needed and wanted to go, but today, he didn’t need much persuasion. All of it was at the surface, but in order to let it go, he needed the extra push. Not so much permission as much as reconciling with himself that he had earned it.
It wasn’t a standard Andrew would ever hold him to, but Wyatt held it fiercely for himself. They made it work.
Andrew smacked his palm down again and again, as steady as the flowing river. Too fast like a gushing waterfall or too slow like dew dripping off a blade of grass wouldn't get them where they needed to go; Wyatt would either get caught up in the web of either physical pain or ruminating thoughts, and it wouldn’t help. He needed guiding, but to still feel like he was moving ahead. Steady, measured swats against each cheek and across the center of his behind, from the fullest part of his bottom to the tops of his thighs, his skin warming to a red glow, was exactly what he needed in times like this, and Andrew knew it with each spank, as that tension in Wyatt shrunk lesser and lesser, until he was lying limply over Andrew’s lap, his back shaking with the sobs he was muffling into the swing’s mattress.
That’s it, sunshine, Andrew thought, with deep affection for this wonder over his knee, who trusted absolutely no one else—including, in some ways, himself—with the evidence of his own humanity, but who wholeheartedly put his trust in Andrew. It was a gift Andrew never wanted to take for granted.
He tested a rub in place of a swat, and Wyatt growled through his tears—a sound that came across a lot less threateningly than he was sure Wyatt meant, but Andrew had no trouble interpreting it. Whether Wyatt liked it or not, though, they were very nearly done. That was Andrew’s decision to make. Andrew did, however, transition the rubs into the spanking slowly, like the cooldown of a good, long workout, guiding the spanking down to a gentle stop. Wyatt’s growling fractured into whining, and bit by bit, he settled into following Andrew’s lead. Soon enough, Andrew had a well worn out man over his lap, his backside the deep red color of the setting sun after a terribly long day, quietly accepting the soothing touch Andrew rubbed against his hot skin.
And they stayed there like that, in a comfortable hush, just being, as Wyatt’s sobs tapered off into sniffles, and he finally lifted his face from the mattress to rest his chin on his arms.
“I’m proud of you, sunshine,” Andrew said quietly.
It was sincerely said, and it made Wyatt squirm. “Shut up,” he retorted, though the words lacked their usual heat.
Andrew smiled and patted his burning ass, and Wyatt wriggled. “I mean it.”
“All right, all right,” Wyatt surrendered, turning a bit to look back at Andrew over his shoulder. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked tired, but his spark was back and he looked much more like himself. “Fucking sadist.”
“You or me?”
“Yes,” he replied dryly, and they shared a grin.
“Settle back down,” Andrew ordered, with gentle pressure between his shoulder blades. “I’ll let you know when you’re done.”
“Seriously?”
The grumbling was accompanied by a sigh as he obeyed, without hesitation, his muscles relaxing again. Andrew knew he’d made the right call, and knew too (though Wyatt would never admit it aloud) that there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
And Andrew felt exactly the same way.